


an eye for an eye, a transgressor for an enforcer

by green_piggy



Series: tales and chronicles of whump [5]
Category: Tales of Crestoria, Tales of Series
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Impalement, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mild Gore, Stabbing, Strangulation, blunt force trauma, everyone dies, well nearly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_piggy/pseuds/green_piggy
Summary: Assid is dead.Forte knows what he must do.
Series: tales and chronicles of whump [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956778
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	an eye for an eye, a transgressor for an enforcer

**Author's Note:**

> pulled on the enforcer banner for assid, got two fortes instead, soon discovered that i _really_ like forte, so naturally this fic happened
> 
> wrote this entire thing before chapter 7 released lmao so as much as i thoroughly enjoyed it [kicks it off a cliff] NOT CANON!!!
> 
> fic itself was written for day 5 of febuwhump, the prompt being "take me instead" - **please PLEASE read all the tags and back out if you don't like the sounds of any of it.** i don't mind!! this is a gruesome fic!! sometimes you just gonna write some good old catharsis - it's whump babe!!

Assid is dead.

"'ell! Un down. Zat was easy, non?"

_Assid is dead._

"Don't get sloppy, Yuna!"

"Oui, oui, Aegrouch."

His. His brother.

"What's up with him?"

"We did just… y'know."

Forte's knees hit the ground. He reaches out and grasps Assid's hand—

He's cold. He's _so_ cold.

He doesn't move — doesn't swat Forte's hand away and tell him to stop being icky and to help him kick ass already, doesn't…

He doesn't.

He.

_He—_

"Do we really need to kill him as well..?"

"I say we attack while he's being such a weakass."

"Vicious-!"

A chill washes over him, and — ah. It's clear. Everything is apparent now.

Forte knows what must be done. An eye for an eye. A transgressor for an enforcer.

He squeezes his brother's hand.

"I'll kill them all," he promises.

He looks at the tight rope marks over his brother's body, from where he had been entangled, suffocated to death from the inside, and he knows what he must do.

"Did he say something..?"

Forte slams his staff on the ground and pulls himself onto his feet, stepping over his brother.

His eyes fall on the woman, who is peering at him with raised eyebrows and a lazy smile, her hands high. Thin ropes dangle off her fingertips.

Forte grins—

"Yuna!"

—and lurches forward.

The woman throws her weapons; Forte dodges them with ease and slices through the few that he doesn't miss. He leaps into the air.

The woman’s strings snap underneath his heels as he lands — he watches the exact moment the easy smile on her face slips away, the very split second her eyes widen into that delicious fear. Her weapons dissipate like strands of flaying blood.

Before she can move — before any of them can react — Forte swings his staff around him with both hands. He spins and—

_THWACK!_

A crack of bone as the side of the staff, just underneath the head, bangs into the back of the woman's skull. Her eyes widen, mouth dropping open—

She falls to the side and thuds against the ground. There's a burst of red on her tongue; Forte mistakens it for blood, before he sees the fading swirl of a Stain of Guilt.

Just like that, his brother's murderer is dead.

It always surprises him how delicate living beings can be.

"No," he hears a man whisper. "No. Not again. Not another person. No no _no—"_

"Aegis, don't be an idiot—"

There's a cry before boots pummel the ground towards Forte.

The young man — a boy, really — brings up his sinful lance. The shaft of Forte’s staff hits it, metal clanging against unholy substance. He is quick and stout, blocking each of Forte’s strikes with ease, but he does not have endurance, does not have righteousness and the goddess’s blessing and _hatred_ coursing through him. His face soon breaks out into sweat, his long eyelashes coated as he scowls and shoves Forte away.

Forte smacks his staff on the ground. As the waves of the Acuteness arte rush over him, he grins. He will take these criminals' corpses and offer them to the goddess if it is the last thing he ever does.

They will not escape. Not for their sins, and not for what they did to his brother.

“Aegis—” bellows a man’s panicked voice. “—hold on-!”

But the boy throws himself forward again, the spear tip glowing. Water pools around it and Assid _Assid his brother Assidhisbrotherhiseverythingtheonlythingworthlivingforis—_

Forte screams.

Aegis falters.

That is enough.

The boy is clearly a guardian and not a fighter; it is easy to dodge out of the way, weaving to the side as the spear cuts through empty air.

Ghost Rush circles under him. Forte’s staff thumps against the ground and sends the tendrils flying towards the other sinners.

“Aegis, get back—”

_“Aegis!”_

Oh, how he would enjoy this.

The boy’s next desperate stab misses him by inches, his golden eyes blazing.

Forte lowers himself and readies the head of his staff. The tip glistens in the sunlight right before he thrusts it into Aegis's eye.

There’s a _squelch,_ a sickening _pop,_ then a bone-piercing screech. Forte pulls his staff back. Dripping off its pointed tip are the gooey remains of an eyeball. On the other tip, pierced skin flaps in the wind.

Aegis stumbles back, howling. His hand lunges to his eyes as he staggers and falls onto the ground. The white glove quickly floods with blood.

His voice soon weakens into pained whimpers. _Good._ His suffering is nothing compared to the storm raging inside Forte’s heart.

Something small and sharp shoots into his arm — one, then another, then another, like drops of sleet. When his veins sing and his every sense is alive, it is easy to ignore such minor things.

He digs his heel into Aegis’s chest — such a _skinny_ thing, Forte thinks, right before he lifts his foot high and stomps down.

Aegis’s head whacks the ground. His chest heaves in-between his broken moans of anguish; truly, a delightful sound to hear from a sinner such as him. For a boy who manipulated and led a woman to her death with false love. For a child knight who abandoned justice for his own selfish whims. Shattering his heart is a most apt punishment.

Forte twirls his staff in his hands. The runny remains of the boy’s eyeball slip off onto his chest as he lies there, wheezing pathetically. Tears, tainted dark, streak down what remains of his face — his trembling and blood-soaked hand covers his eyes, but Forte can see a small hollow from where skin has separated from bone; it is lush and ripe, like the inside of a pomegranate.

The orb at the top of his staff sings louder the closer he brings it to the boy’s heart. The Stain of Guilt over it flickers and shakes in time with the boy’s hitching sobs.

The goddess is praising him.

He lifts his staff up—

_“AEGIS!”_

—and slams it down with a grin.

The boy convulses once before falling still and silent. His hand slides off his face and onto the soaked ground, and — oh, that _is_ quite the gruesome sight.

He yanks his staff out. Gore oozes from the small but deep wound in the boy’s chest. Red trickles down onto the tip of Forte’s boot.

Forte steps off the corpse and scrubs his boot against the grass until it stains. There’s a broken roar — a girl’s voice, so _young,_ a noise that shrieks through the air, then he feels fire approaching—

The pillar of flame sears his arm. Forte drops his staff with a cry, but this is when Assid leaps in front of him with a feral grin, water swirling around him before he lunges forward—

No.

Assid is dead. Assid is nothing more than a pile of bones and flesh lying in front of him, his spirit now with the goddess.

The thought does not calm his traitorous heart. If anything, it makes him rage.

Charred, twitching fingers grip his staff once more—

“Misella, you can’t heal them — stop, they’re-!”

_“Shut up, Vicious!”_

Forte feels the heat of an arte forming — he turns and snarls and throws himself at the girl. She may wield fire, and he the earth, but one’s elemental affinity means nothing when you grab them by the throat and _squeeze._

His weapon tumbles to the ground behind him. He has no need for it.

She cries as they both fall, her hands slapping his back with a strength that betrays her bird-like bones.

There’s shouting from behind her.

"Ghost Rush!" Forte commands.

"Tch — get off me, you bastards—"

_"Misella!"_ comes a young boy's broken wail. _"MISELLAAAA!"_

Misella is even more pale and thin than the first boy had been, her rosy eyes wild and popping out. But the look on her face isn’t fear — that scowl only craves murder. She wants him dead just as much as he wants her death.

Forte digs his fingers in deeper. The neckline of her dress caves in around his nails. Blood seeps out from the cracks in his still-burning skin and smears onto her perfect white dress. He can’t feel her flesh directly, but he can feel the rapid-fire pounding of her heart, can hear the wheezes she forces out.

He can see the exact moment her fury turns to panic, and it is a sight more intoxicating than any alcohol.

His back burns as her hands pound against it. He can smell the singe of flesh, can feel the air bite at exposed skin that soon melt under her grasp. Misella is more powerful than he expected, but his magic is still at work. She cannot be saved.

Her nails dig in deep into his wounds, as though someone has injected fire directly into his veins. Forte throws his head back and _screams,_ but he does not let go. He strangles her, pressing his fingers tighter and tighter and _tighter—_

_Snap._

Her hands fall limb against his back, now colder than ice. When Forte brings his head down, it’s to the sight of her neck snapped at a sharp angle. She looks almost like a porcelain doll, a _child;_ certainly not a sinner who burnt down an orphanage and murdered innocent enfants.

Forte pulls back his hands. His fingers ache and crack and bleed. Heavy bruises are already forming from underneath the lace of her dress’s neckline.

Perhaps, if she had been a normal child, he would have felt regret.

He only feels satisfaction. Another one down.

_“MISELLA!!”_

A flash of dark light. The blond boy — Forte can still see the puppy fat clinging to his cheeks _—_ rushes forward with an abomination of a greatsword in hand. The monster behind him stretches out a free hand, looking almost human in his panic.

"Kanata-!"

_"I'll kill you!"_ the child snarls. His face is so furious for someone so young.

He brings his sword down. Even if Forte hadn't dodged to the side, it would have missed by quite a few feet.

That doesn't stop him.

"Bring her back!" His voice peaks and breaks. There are fat, ugly tears streaming down his face, catching on his wobbling lips. "Bring them back!"

"Kid, get back — I can't aim-!"

_"Bring them back!"_

In-between the boy's blind, lucrious slices, Forte retrieves his staff with ease. It is brimming with magic, ready to unleash its most powerful arte.

He hits the bottom against the ground. The arte circle for Xenomalenifica swirls around him as the goddess's magic weaves and gathers.

"Onwards, Assid—"

It was instinct. Forte doesn't allow himself to hesitate or grow weak; his brother's body remains in the corner of his eye as purple flames rise around him. The head of his staff glows.

"Kanata — get _back—"_

_"He killed Misella!"_

Forte runs forward, staff brimming, and leaps into the air. He brings it down, violet energy exploding. The spiral of magic around Kanata bursts into a mighty pillar that encompasses him entirely.

The pillar pierces the sky in time with the boy's howls, as though a hole has been torn through the fabric of reality itself.

"Kid — _kid-!"_

"Let the wind take your ashes," Forte murmurs.

He raises an eyebrow when the light dies down and the child is standing. He staggers, his entire body struggling, but he still draws breath.

For someone named the Great Transgressor, his fellow criminal has done remarkably little during this fight so far. His eyes keep bouncing between the boy and his associates' corpses.

Neither of them notice the whispers of the curse floating around Kanata.

"Is that all you got!?" the child yells. He runs forward, the tip of his sword kicking up mud from the ground.

As he moves, the Great Transgressor must realise what's happened — his face goes from pale to ashen. "Kanata! Don't move, you're—"

_"DIE!"_

Kanata raises his sword over his head with a cry.

Forte stands there, one hand tucked behind his back, and smiles.

Just before Kanata can bring the blade down, his face inches from Forte's own, he freezes — then yelps and sobs as the curse from Xenomalenifica reaches the end of its countdown.

Forte has been cursed before — has cursed himself while practicing his artes, as a form of training. It is a brutal effect that rips you from the inside out, ignites your veins and shatters your bones and makes you want to curl up and die. It is difficult to survive, but people tend to live as long as they haven't been too grievously injured.

Kanata is not one of those people.

He is not even a person.

For monsters like him, curse is an instant condemnation.

He gives an ear-piercing shriek, one that rattles through Forte's skull, before he falls backwards and slams the ground. He doesn't move. His longsword disappears like smouldered flames. There is a flash on his right hand — the cracking of another Stain of Guilt.

Forte's soaked hands fumble and slip on his staff, leaving streaks of maroon in their wake. His gloves are ruined. He's not done, he's _not done,_ but it's as though all energy has left his body. He stumbles back and falls onto his knees, gasping for breath. His back burns and his fingers bleed and his heart _weeps—_

"You call me a monster," comes the Great Transgressor's chilled voice, "but I'm not the one who just did — all of this." His voice goes high. "Have ya even _looked_ at yourself in a mirror?"

"As though you haven't—" Forte rasps. "—haven't slaughtered countless more. _Everything_ I do is for the goddess."

"The same goddess that let your brother die, huh?"

It's as though Forte has been sucker-punched in the stomach. His fingers dig into the staff. He heaves himself onto one knee and glares up. "This is — a test."

_"Really?"_ The Great Transgressor looks around at the corpses at their feet — from the first woman to the first boy, his face twisted and his lips pulled thin. His eyes flash with a peculiar emotion Forte doesn't care to name as he gazes at the other two. "Is this the test your goddess wanted you to pass? Murderin' kids?"

"They were transgressors—"

"They were _children!"_ he roars. He flings his arm out. A crackle of dark energy zig-zags across it. "I finally…” He cuts himself off with a maniacal laugh, throwing his head back with his hand clutching it. "I finally let myself care about some stupid assholes — let myself think that maybe, just maybe, even someone like me could have a family—" He drops his head and glares at Forte, all faux-humour gone. Were Forte a weaker man, he would have wilted under such a violent look. "—and you killed 'em all."

Forte clenches his staff to stop the rattling in his arm. His entire body begins to tremor. "You shouldn't have killed mine."

He knows that he will die here. Perhaps, whispers a traitorous voice in his mind, the monster is right. Perhaps the goddess _has_ forsaken him, for why else would he stumble now? Why else would this new-found surge of power fail him right as he was about to end the worst transgressor of them all?

Nonetheless.

If not for the goddess, he must finish this for his brother.

Panting, Forte leans against his staff, clinging to it as he forces himself to stand. The Great Transgressor doesn't move, doesn't even seem to breathe. Guns wisp and form in his hands.

Forte raises his staff—

_BANG!_

Searing pain in his chest it hurts _it hurts goddess it hurts help—_

His staff clatters off the ground. Forte falls a second later. His hand rests over the burning in his chest, just shy of his heart, and it comes away coated with blood. His fingers squelch when he holds them up to the sky and spreads them wide.

It is a gorgeous day.

Forte is dying.

Assid is dead.

A shadow falls over him.

"Why didn't ya take me instead?" the Great Transgressor hisses. He seems to have given up entirely on the illusion of appearing human — a demonic hand, singed red over black, overshadows the sun in its entirety. His clawed foot pushes down hard on Forte's chest. There's a _crack_ of ribs snapping. Forte bites down on his lip; he refuses to give this monster the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

"I'm the most worthless of 'em all. They didn't—" Why he almost looks ready to break out into tears is beyond Forte's comprehension. "Damn it all, _they didn't—"_

He rears back and Forte rasps, his lungs heaving for air even as he lies there unable to move. He tilts his head and—

Assid.

_Assid._

Assid is there. His brother is there, his arm thrown out. He’s so close.

Forte raises a trembling hand. He reaches, slowly, so _slowly,_ dragging his entire body. It aches. It hurts. It _burns._

His brother is right there.

Closer and closer — almost there almost there _almost there—_

"Fuck you!"

Pain explodes through his chest. A claw juts out of where his heart lies, drowning in blood, flakes of shattered bones in its nails.

Forte _screams—_

There is nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> [ [twitter](https://twitter.com/greenpiggles) ]
> 
> kudos and/or comments are always appreciated~


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